


The Old Ways

by RogerStenning



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerStenning/pseuds/RogerStenning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illyan invokes the Old Ways...<br/>.<br/>.<br/>.<br/>.<br/>.<br/>.<br/>.<br/>...Also... how do you think Simon learned to fight and be so devious, anyhow?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Ways

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Elvaron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvaron/pseuds/Elvaron) in the [Bujold_Ficathon_2013](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bujold_Ficathon_2013) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> Simon Illyan, fighting dirty.

# The Old Ways 

A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

© 2013, Roger Stenning.

***

This fic was inspired by Elvarons prompt for the 2013 Vorkosigan Saga Ficathon, "Simon Illyan, fighting dirty."

***

Many thanks as usual, to my Beta Reading Team, Coalboy, Jekni, Philomytha, and Sharaith, without whom, this story would not have proper grammar or spelling (or decent wording in places come to that), and would probably still be stuck on the keyboard!

***

The Old Ways  
By Roger Stenning

_...Ten years ago..._

One of his final memories of his Da, before he passed away, and Illyan went to stay with his uncle, was a conversation, on the back porch one summer evening.

In school that day, Simon had learned about the way that justice was administered, and he and his Da were discussing that after dinner. Sitting in his wheelchair, in between bouts of severe coughing, Timofey Illyan sloshed the vodka around in his glass, and mused aloud. "For justice to work, it has to be seen to work, Simon. It's no good just killing those who wrong us: In the final analysis, death is but the work of a moment. Granted, there are those crimes for which death is the only suitable punishment or answer, but what of the others? Well, shaming someone effectively, by making them work in prison work gangs on those really nasty jobs that most folk don't want to do, to reform them, or punish them, is both more effective, and much more satisfying to the soul of the victims, wouldn't you agree?"

"But what of the man who betrayed you, Da?"

Timofey shrugged. "Hmph. They're criminals, son, and to catch them, I had to pretend to be like them. When they found out I was a guard, in their twisted minds, I was just one of the costs of doing business. That's a risk you run as a detective for Lord Vorbohn's guard, and I wouldn't change things even if I could. But I did good - we got most of them, and the rest are still running, and probably will be for the rest of their lives. It's good enough for me. Killing the Judas - whoever the damn fool is - won't bring back the use of my legs, will it? No, when they eventually find out who it was, I say shame the despicable creature down to the ninth circle of hell, that's what I say." It had struck a note with Simon, and he began, quietly, to research The Nu Krasnoyarsk Mob.

A year later, his Da died and, lacking anyone else, he'd moved in with his Uncle, who found a more reliable, and less punishing occupation than Professional Barrayaran Sambo fighting, to care for his only living relative. A short while later, he began to pass his martial arts secrets and training on to his nephew.

_***_

_...Yesterday..._

Viktor Gredov was exasperated. The thoroughly insolent child to his front, all of seventeen years old, not even listed as a novice in any of the martial arts registries, was giving him - HIM! - back chat on how to apply and use effective techniques in his own bloody dojo. This simply wasn't on. So, he'd offered the brat a chance to put his carcass where his mouth was, and show what he knew. The brat actually accepted. This was going to be satisfying to watch.

That he'd been stalked and studied, his weaknesses analysed and targeted, and thus been cornered into making the challenge, never even occurred to Gredov. He truly believed himself to be at the top of the food chain.

"Oleg Alekseyevich, try not to break him more than strictly necessary, but teach him a lesson, eh?" he said to the youngster he'd chosen. A rising star in the beginners ranks, Gredov had high hopes for Oleg in the junior ranks Vorbarr Sultana Mixed Martial Arts competition, which was a mere month away.

The brat objected. "Not a fair test. He'll do something stupid, and I'll hurt him." The boy pointed to a much more senior member, whose appearances at All Barrayar Mixed Martial Arts events was well-known. "He'll do." Laughter from the assembled students met this adolescent pronouncement of superiority.

Fine. His funeral. Gredov gestured to his star pupil. "Same rules, Kiril. Hurt, but don't break, maim, or kill him, eh?"

Kiril Olveski nodded once. "Done", was the almost impossibly deep-voiced one-word pronouncement of impending doom he gave in reply.

Gredov, hands on hips, stared at the brat, shrugged, and asked bluntly, "Before you require an ambulance, what's your name?"

"I'll tell you afterwards." The implied warning went in one ear and straight out the other, for everyone present. Gredov shrugged again. "Fair enough, I asked, and it's your funeral, after all. Still want the pain you're asking for?"

"I won't be the one receiving it. He will. Let's do this."

Cocky little shit, I'll give him that, at least, thought Gredov. "Fine. You, blue. Olevski, red. Get on the square."

Olevski took easy, confident steps, not a movement appearing to be wasted, and stood on the red line. The boy walked nonchalantly to the blue line, shrugged his shoulders a couple of times, side nodded his head back and forth, and took a deep breath. "Apologies in advance. It's nothing personal, you understand. I just have to make the point," the brat commented to him. Olevski snorted in derision. Gredov took the umpires' position to the edge of the mat. Raising one hand, he started the impromptu match "Bow. FIGHT!"

_***_

As Kiril was being loaded into the ambulance, still curled up, Gredov replayed the fight on the dojo closed-circuit tri-vid for the third time, in mute shock.

Kiril had begun with a classic roundhouse kick to the head, and that's where it had all unravelled for him.

The kid, exhibiting skills far in advance of someone his age, had in a fraction of a second, dropped to an almost impossible forward lunging bent-knee splits, with his first strike a perfectly executed and hideously powerful uppercut to Kiril's groin. As if that wasn't enough, the spinning left-leg sweep that floored him was followed up with a descending elbow strike to just below the navel - smack dab above the bladder - and a rotating reverse elbow to the base of the sternum, right over the solar plexus, after which the brat had performed a flawless open-web claw strike to the base of the throat, and a dual clap strike to the ears. Kiril hadn't stood a smidgen of a chance.

The whole combination had taken a shade under five seconds. All Kiril could do was roll into a foetal ball on his side, hold his family jewels between his legs, and produce an almost impossibly high-pitched wheeze of pain. The box he wore was broken in two by the punch, it later transpired.

The kid stood behind him as he replayed it a final, fourth, time. Hands on hips, Gredov released a heavy sigh, and hung his head briefly, before he turned around and, hands on hips, fixed his stare on the kid, whose face was devoid of expression, if a little pale, and maybe a little tight-lipped. There was something about this boy that tickled his memory. "All right. Who the hell are you?"

"Simon Illyan".

Gredov was startled for a moment. Muted alarm bells were starting to go off in the back of his mind. Illyan. Why did that name sound familiar? The moment was enough for Illyan, whose kick to Gredov was, like the combination to Olevski, perfectly executed. Only this time, it wasn't a bog-standard snap kick.

This one was a full-on rocket-propelled, anger-fuelled mallet to the mashables, complete with rage-owned scream that echoed off the walls. Gredov wasn't wearing a box, as there hadn't seemed to be a need that day. Huge mistake. Hands between his legs, eyes clenched shut more firmly that a battleships blast shields, and cupping his groin, he fell to his knees, doubled up with his forehead on the parquet flooring, and all he could do was try not to throw up, as Illyan crouched down before him, speaking slowly and clearly.

"I've been personally tutored by Aleksei Tresev for the last ten years. He's my uncle. That's why I'm not in the databases." Tresev, the founder of Barrayaran Sambo, was almost a legend in BMMA circles. It was a fact that the Ministry of Political Education had adopted Barrayaran Sambo as its unarmed combat system, so effective was it over the conventional military forms of Barrayaran hand-to-hand fighting. Tresev, five-time winner of the All Barrayaran Open MMA tournament, had then withdrawn from public life a decade previously, undefeated, allegedly to care for a young relation.

Illyan continued, "The Nu Krasnoyarsk Mob. You were working for them at the same time you worked for the District Prosecutor. You covered your tracks well; just not well enough. Took me all this time to find out who betrayed my Da to them. You may recall that they flayed him so badly he was crippled. The infection he suffered as a result eventually killed him."

He paused, as if assessing if Gredov was still conscious and paying attention, then wagged a forefinger at Gredov. "Now, in the Time Of Isolation, The Old Ways let us decide on the fitting punishment for the guilty. Although I damn well should, I'm not going to cripple or kill you, though. Oh, no. I'm going to do far worse than that. I'm going to destroy you instead."

Gredov managed a weak moan of pain. Simon sat down cross-legged beside him, and carried on.

"There may have been no suitable evidence available to link you as the Judas, or to charge or convict you at the time, but things change, and ten years of digging always turns up something new. Lord Vorbohn's Guard said there's nothing they could do, as the case is past the limitations statute. There's an amendment going through committee right now, but it won't be retroactive. Annoying, but there you have it." He shrugged, and looked down at Gredov, who was swallowing, trying to hold back the vomit.

Simon shrugged again. "So, what to do? Well, my Da always said that shaming the guilty was the key to justice, so that's what I've done. I've passed my research on the NKM - and your pivotal work for them - onto the New Dawn newspaper. They were very happy to see it, and are publishing it in the morning. It is, I'm told, going to be a ten-page exposé on the Mob. And that's broadsheet pages, not tabloid. Since I'm not the only one whose fathers were maimed or died because of your betrayals, I'd imagine that those folks will come looking for you. I'm showing you physical mercy. _They_ are highly unlikely to. I'm actually hoping they catch up with you, but I do like a good chase movie, and honestly, you and I both know that you don't want to be caught by them, right?"

With that, he stood, and left the dojo, head held high.

_***_

Olevski wasn't responsible for anything, he'd just been the doorway to Simon's vengeance, but Simon felt a debt, and had visited him in the hospital that evening, and, with his Uncle's consent, had extended his uncle's offer of a years personal tuition, by way of apology. With the situation explained, Kiril was magnanimous, and accepted both the apology, and the offer.

_***_

_...Today..._

After breakfast, at the railway station while he waited for his train, he'd bought a copy of the New Dawn newspaper. It had every photograph that he'd provided, and a few more besides. They'd also expanded on his research with their own archives. It made for riveting reading. It seemed that there were a lot of people looking to remove Gredov's hide from him. While he still lived. Naturally, Gredov had fled, leaving everything behind. With his face plastered across the front page - and probably most vid news channels by the evening - he couldn't be more ruined if Simon tried.

The monorail train pulled up alongside the platform, and the doors cam-shelled open, disgorging the commuters into the city. Simon waited until the torrent had passed, and boarded the second class carriage, putting his suitcase in the rack above his head, and showing his validated rail warrant to the conductor as he passed.

He looked out over the landscape of the countryside as the train took him to his destination. Even though it had taken ten years, and even though he had only kicked the man once, and then left him to his fate, Simon was satisfied. He had attained vengeance for his father, without getting his hands dirty.

One chapter of his life was now properly closed, with no baggage left behind to clutter the way, and another was about to begin, as he travelled to the District Military Academy, there to take the first step on the ladder to Imperial Service.

_Fin._


End file.
